Mothers and Minuets
by High-Functioning Ginger
Summary: John finally gets to meet the infamous Mummy - Penny Holmes. She hosts a ball in celebration of them and he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's past and what led to the creation of the Sherlock he knows and loves.*Finally updated*
1. Jumpers and Scones

_**AN: So remember how I said I would write a one-shot spin off for the Meeting Mummy chp of the Detective and His Blogger? I lied. **_

_**Well – I didn't lie – that was original intent! But it ran away with me and will be too long for a one-shot. So I bring you a short multi-chp fic based on that chp. I'm planning on three chapters right now – but it may end up longer. I'm not sure yet! I hope this is what you all were looking for when you requested the story!**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.**

Everything is coordinated and set in place.

John has Friday and Monday off from the clinic so they will have a four-day weekend. He is happy to finally be meeting the infamous Mummy. However there is a nagging nervousness he can't deny.

Not a _"What if she doesn't like me"_ sort of nervousness. After all he's not a teenager anymore. Whether Ms. Holmes approves has little relevance on his relationship with Sherlock. This is more an unease because he doesn't know what to expect. This woman raised Mycroft and Sherlock so she must be one hell of a mother. And probably quite a character herself, if her son's are anything to go by.

Sherlock had referred to her a "cross between Mycroft and Ms Hudson".

What could that possibly mean? Those personalities are rather contradictory. Does he mean she's overbearing? Motherly to a suffocating degree? He has no idea what to expect.

And don't even get him started on the ball. After he convinced Sherlock to go he realized that he had no idea what he was getting into. A ball sounded like fun in theory but this was an entirely different class of people he would be dealing with.

But he tries to force his concerns from his mind and focus on packing.

It's Thursday night and Mycroft is sending a car around in the morning to fetch them. He's having a bit of a dilemma in what to pack though. Other than the tuxes; which will be for Saturday night, he's not really sure what is appropriate. And he does want to make a favorable impression.

As he's debating his options he hears Ms Hudson's trademark knock and "Wohoo" from the door. "Come in" Sherlock answers from somewhere in the living room. "I brought you boys some scones. They'll be a good quick breakfast for you before you head off tomorrow." she says, bringing a platter in and setting it on the table. Knowing Sherlock won't bother John steps from his room calling downstairs "You're a saint Ms Hudson. That'll be perfect." "Oh you're welcome." she says, waving her hand dismissively. "And what're you boys up to this evening? All packed I'm sure." "Not yet." John says, holding up the jumpers in his arms "Having a hard time deciding..."

He never should have said that.

He realizes this as soon as he sees a gleam in Ms Hudson's eyes. "Oh let me help you." "No, that's alright. I'll manag-" "Don't be silly." she insists, already ascending the stairs. "You need a woman's help for this John. You want to make a good impression on an elderly lady, what better than to have one help you." John knows that there is no use in arguing and just shrugs to himself, heading back into his bedroom, Ms. Hudson following.

As he's pulling things from his dresser for Ms Hudson to sort through he can hear Sherlock rambling about the kitchen, undoubtedly working on an experiment. He's already packed of course. He keeps coming upstairs to peek in on them though, shooting John teasing smirks as Ms Hudson fusses over his clothes.

He's enjoying this far too much. "Hey Sherlock, why don't you give us a hand." John suggests when Sherlock ducks into his room for the third time in the past half-hour. "Oh, no. I think Ms Hudson and you have it under control." he says already trying to back out. "No we don't. We're having a hell of a time deciding on these shirts and she is your mother." "So?" "So you'll be the better judge of what I need to bring." "I really don't think-" "John's right." Ms Hudson cuts in "Give us a hand dear. John needs to look his best for your weekend together." and that seems to do it for Sherlock.

John realizes that he's just handed himself over like a bloody Barbie doll for Sherlock to dress up in whatever pleases him most. But this might be a good chance for him to learn what Sherlock likes as well.

"I think this might be nice" Ms Hudson says, holding up a plaid button-up shirt. Sherlock snorts and grabs it, flinging it onto the floor. "No." he says, shifting through the pile on the bed, flinging them haphazardly on the floor. "Ah." he says, selecting a black and white jumper and tossing it onto John's duffle bag. "This one as well." he says, tossing a dark green button up onto of his duffle bag as well. "Oh, certainly this one. Red always looks good on you." He says, tossing a crimson jumper onto the "pack" pile.

"It does?" "Mhmm." is Sherlock's response as he continues looking. "And this should do It." he finishes, tossing John's favorite tan jumper onto the pile. "Really?" "What?" "Well, it's just I wear that all the time. Bit casual isn't it?" "Maybe. But I like it, pack it." Well John's not going to argue that. "Problem solved." He says with a sort of flourish towards the pile for John to pack. "Now if you've no further need of my assistance I've left a beaker of combustible fluids unattended far too long."

And with that he's out the door and down the stairs.

Ms Hudson mutters under her breath, displeased with his experiment, but holds her peace. "Well I think we're done here. Thanks for giving me hand." he says, trying, politely to dismiss her. "Let me give you a hand with this mess, dear" she offers; gesturing to the floor, scattered with shirts and jumpers, courtesy of Sherlock.

"That's alright Ms. Hudson. I'll get it. You're not out housekeeper after all." he insists.

Ms. Hudson smiles at this "And don't you forget it." she says, departing.

John hears her call out a goodbye before she closed the door and returns to her own flat. He lets out a sigh when she's gone. He adores Ms. Hudson, but sometimes she can be a bit much. It doesn't take him long to straighten up his room and finish packing.

When he's done he heads downstairs and sets his duffle bag by the door. He finds Sherlock emptying container from the fridge into the rubbish bin. "What are you doing, love?" "Most of these specimens will be bad by the time we get back. Figured you wouldn't want spoiled pig blood in the fridge." "Considerate of you. What happened to the combustible fluid?" "There was none." "Just an easy escape then?" "Yes. And you shouldn't sound so surprised." "Surprised?" "About me being considerate. I can manage thoughtfulness on occasion." "Oh I know, love. I didn't mean to upset you." "You didn't. Just reminding you." and then Sherlock becomes side-tracked with something in the containers muttering that he needs to make a slide and examine it closer. John knows that his presence has been temporarily forgotten, but he is used to this and unbothered by it.

Leaving Sherlock to his science, he heads for the living room and settles into his chair, clicking on the telly. He flicks through the channels until he comes to a trivia game show. He settles on that because he knows it will get Sherlock's attention. He claims to hate them, but he inevitably ends up joining John when he's watching one. Guess it's just because he's unable to resist a chance to show off his cleverness. Of course he gets some of the questions wrong, having deleted the information or simply never having bothered to acquire it.

Tonight is no different. It starts off with Sherlock calling answers from the kitchen as he's still bent over the table, working. If he doesn't know the answer, or gets it wrong he always grumbles "What's the point of knowing that anyway?"

Fifteen minutes later and he's moved to the living room, standing with slide in hand. He acts as though he's just pausing to watch for a moment and then he will go back to his work. That doesn't happen of course and ten minutes later he's perched on the edge of John's chair, muttering answers to the questions. Finally John moves to the couch so Sherlock can curl up next to him, like he always does.

Sherlock's always been on for strange positions and tonight he lays his head on the armrest, turned towards the screen. His neck and upper back are lying across John's lap and his long legs almost reach the other arms rest. One of his arms is draped off the couch; hand on the floor and with the other he's thoughtlessly tracing patterns with his thumb on one of John's hands, while John is absent-mindedly playing with his curls. All thoughts and worries of tomorrow are gone from their minds and they're simply enjoying each other's presence. That's how they remain for the rest of the evening.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


	2. Penny

_**AN: Alright – Chp 2 – in which we finally meet Mummy! I hope you all like how I'm portraying her character. I'm open to any suggestions/request with the ball/other characters and such. I probably won't be able to update with Chp 3 until next week – but it will be worth the wait!**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.**

The next morning is a flurry. Sherlock actually slept last night and his body decided to take full advantage of that. So come 8:45; with the car arriving at 9:15, Sherlock is still in bed. John has been up since 7:00 shaving, showering and packing a few last minute odds and ends.

Noting that Sherlock has shown no signs of stirring he goes to wake him. Easier said than done. He tries everything. Patting him, shaking him, saying his name, shouting his name. He pulls the covers off, flicks the lights on and off to no avail. As 9:00 quickly approaches he's seriously considering dousing him with cold water.

Ping! The noise comes from his mobile and to his surprise bolts Sherlock wide awake.

"A text? Is it a case?" he demands, scrambling for his own phone resting on his nightstand. John is not even going to ask why a quiet text-chime was more effective than shouting and shaking; he's just glad Sherlock is up.

"Nope. That was mine." he says, digging his phone from his pocket.

**8:57**

Good luck this weekend. Have fun.

_GL_

He shoots of a quick reply of thanks; before addressing Sherlock again."Just Lestrade with a friendly good luck message. Now you need to move. Car will be here in less than fifteen minutes." Sherlock sinks back into his bed grumbling incoherent protests. "No you don't." John insists, pulling him up. "Get up and get dressed. You need to be downstairs in five." Sherlock rolls out of bed with and overdone sigh of exaggerated reluctance, but complies with John's request and head to the bathroom to get ready.

With Sherlock up and moving, John heads to the kitchen; setting out a scone and coffee as Sherlock's breakfast. He's already had his and he hopes Sherlock will eat.

Five minutes later Sherlock emerges looking crisp and put together as usual; all signs of the petulant child gone. "Eat." he commands, pointing to the scone as he finishes off his coffee. To his pleasant surprise, Sherlock does; downing the scone quickly. As Sherlock is finishing off his coffee John's phone chimes again, this time it's from Mycroft.

**9:15**

The car has arrived.

_MH_

"Time to go?" Sherlock inquires; deducing the contents of the message. "Yep."

They grab their bags and are out the door and in the car in under ten minutes.

The ride is a quiet one. Sherlock seems rather broody and none of John's attempts at conversation will jostle him from his thoughts.

Luckily it isn't long before they're pulling up to a large elegant house. John can see Mycroft and Anthea waiting for them on the porch as the pull up to the front of the house. John can't control the low whistle that escapes his lips at the sight of the home. He knew Sherlock's family had money of course, but actually seeing it is a bit surprising.

The house they're pulling up to is a grand Victorian house; recently renovated; but still maintaining all of its old-world elegance. Well manicured hedges line the drive and front yard is landscaped with flowers in varying shades of blue from royal to periwinkle. Apparently Sherlock's favorite color is genetic.

When they exit the car, Mycroft descends the front stairs to greet them.

"Sherlock. It's so nice of you to arrive. Even if you are seven minutes late."

Sherlock gives him a sugary, plastic smile. "My apologies Mycroft. John had a difficult time getting my out of bed this morning." This is the truth of course; but Sherlock's purposely overdone innocence implies something other than him being a heavy sleeper.

John knows Sherlock is doing this simply to ruffle Mycroft and doesn't bother reprimanding him for what he's implying. Instead he steps out of the line of fire to greet Mycroft's Blackberry absorbed assistant. "Morning Anthea." He knows this isn't her real name; it's not even her most current alias; but he can never keep track of them. "Brooklyn." she corrects; not looking up. After a few moments delay she raise her head; shooting him a quick smile, saying "Good morning John." and returns her gaze to the screen. This is a bit of a ritual for them. He greets her as Anthea; she corrects him and then will belatedly return his greeting.

Sherlock and Mycroft are still exchanging jibes when Brooklyn looks up from her screen, announcing "She's coming sir." The shift in the air is palatable. The jibes stop flying between the brothers immediately and they both seem to straighten as if they're standing at attention. Sherlock beckons to John to come stand beside him and the face the door, waiting for it to open. You would think someone just announced the coming of the Queen. Now he knows where Sherlock gets his penchant for dramatics.

The door opens and into the morning sunlight steps Mummy. It's clear she's Sherlock's mum. She's has the same curly brunette hair; though her's tumbles wildly at shoulder length. She has the same sharp cheekbones and steely blue-green eyes. Her attire isn't all that different from his either. John expected a dress or skirt to be honest. However she's wearing a crisp slate blue pant suit and a tie. Her understated silver earrings and a simple gold ring adds a touch of feminine class to her almost masculine attire. Definitely not what he expected; but then again he should know better. When it comes to anything involving Sherlock you should never make assumptions or have expectations.

"Sherlock. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see my youngest again." she greets with a cool smile. "I'm here now." is his equally crisp reply. "Mycroft, Melody." she greets with a nod. Apparently she can't keep track of the aliases either. And finally she turns her gaze to John. "Dr John Watson." she greets; approaching him. He extends his hand; reflexively. However she doesn't take it.

Instead she reaches into her jacket pocket and removes a monocle. John struggles to keep his surprise from showing. He didn't think they even made them anymore. She places it primly over one eye and tilts her head to the side; obviously examining him. Her calculated, searching gaze rakes over him and if he wasn't so used to seeing that look in Sherlock's eyes he would've been unnerved. Having finished her sweep of him she turns her gaze onto Sherlock; who looks almost amused by her antics. Then she allows it to travel between the two of them, resting upon their hands. They aren't clasped; but hanging closely to each other, brushing at the tips.

"Excellent." she, murmurs; having reached a decision. She replaces the monocle into her pocket and then smiles. Her entire face seems to change and soften and John finally sees the "mummy" side of her. "Wonderful to meet you." she greets warmly; extending her hand." I'm Penelope Holmes." Taking her hand; John notes she has rather firm grip. He returns her greeting with equal warmth "The pleasure is all mine Mrs. Holmes." He counters with a smile. "Penny." She corrects; to John's surprise. "Oh, right. Penny. And you can call me John of course." He offers, realizing it was probably rude of him not to do so before. "I intended to." Is her almost smug reply and John is sure he catches sight of Sherlock struggling against a smirk from the corner of his eye.

"Shall we go in?" she says; turning towards the house and heading for the door. Obviously a rhetorical question. John barley manages to stifle a gasp as they enter.

The only word that comes to mind is "grand". There is simply no other way to describe it.

The front room they've entered into is large with vaulted ceilings and a prominent stair case ascending right in the center of the room. The walls are a very pale smoky blue and there is cream colored marble tile below. It's expertly decorated; everything perfectly coordinated and placed; down to the hooks on the coat racks. Clearly something Sherlock did not inherit. He has a feeling Mycroft got that gene.

"I know you boys are probably tired. You can get your luggage and settle in. You're old room is all fixed up for you to Sherlock." Penny says; gesturing in the general direction of the staircase. "Which one?" is his response.

John shouldn't be surprised; having seen the house; but he can't help but raise his eyebrows at Sherlock's question. He had multiple rooms as a child? Why would you need more than one?

"Your actual bedroom. Not that study of yours that you always ended up sleeping in." Directing herself to John she adds "I always found him slumped over a book of some sort at to oddest hours. He would never sleep in a proper bed." John smiles, because that hasn't changed. "Yep. He still does that. Only know I find him slumped over a laptop or at the kitchen table next to his chemistry set. I have to order him to bed in order for him to get any decent sleep." Sherlock grumbles under his breath; displeased at their mutual exasperation and amusement over his habits. "Order him? That must be a quite a sight." Penny replies with a grin. "Well I was a Captain, so I now how to giver orders. And he knows that I force him bodily to bed if I have to. He's tall, but rather light and I can easily carry him." "Are we quite done discussing my sleeping habits?" snaps Sherlock. "Lack there of Sweetie." Penny replies; shooting John a conspiratorial grin.

Sherlock lets out an irritated huff and Penny shakes her head at him; looking very much like a mother. "Alright. We're done. Got fetch your luggage and you can give John a tour of the house as well. When you've had a chance to settle in meet me in the back gardens. We'll have some tea and I've fill you in on the plans for Saturday evening."

With a final smile she retreats into another room that John assumes leads to the gardens. Mycroft and Brooklyn follow, leaving them alone.

"Well I think she likes you." Sherlock comments in an unreadable tone. "That's a good thing right?" he clarifies "I suppose." Is Sherlock's neutral response. "What does that mean?" he demands; getting irritated by Sherlock. "Well it's good that she likes you because if she didn't; you would never have gotten inside. And it certainly makes our life easier." "I'm sensing a 'but' here" "Only the fact that when she likes you she can be a bit much." "Bit much?" he prompts, wanting Sherlock to clarify. Sherlock is a "bit much" himself so he really shouldn't be talking. "She can be overwhelming. It's hard to explain and you'll see for yourself soon enough. My father died when I was seven and-"

"Oh I'm so sorry Sherlock." John responds sympathetically. Sherlock rarely speaks of his family and this is he first he's heard of it. But Sherlock waves him off.

"We were never close. He favored Mycroft. Didn't really affect me. I hardly remember him." "Oh" "Yes. Well anyway; what I was saying is that after he died Mummy took and the role of a father and mother rolled into one. Even now she still maintains that mindset. So it makes for a bit of an overwhelming personality."

"Ah. Makes sense. I think I can handle it thought. I can manage you." He comments with a smile so that Sherlock knows he means it in the best way possible.

"True." Is Sherlock's response, with a grin of his own.

"Luggage?" John reminds, as they've been side-tracked with their conversation.

"Right. Of course." And they head out to retrieve their bags and then settle into their room.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


	3. The Plans

_**AN: So this story is kind of running away with me. It was supposed to be short and sweet; but it's going to be long and not all that sweet. Don't worry – there will be plenty of fluff still! Just some other stuff thrown in as well – Like some Sherlock back-story which may get a tad angsty...**_

_**Anyway – let me know what you're thoughts are on Penny's character – a few people commented on the oddity of the monocle. That's the point of it – She raised Sherlock and Mycroft –she's going to have some eccentricities of her own.**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.**

Sherlock's room was certainly not what he expected. He's not exactly sure what he was expecting, mind you, but this is not it. The room in unbelievably normal. It could be anybody's bedroom. The room has silvery grey walls and a large window overlooking the gardens. There is a queen size bed against one wall and a desk and wardrobe against the other. John actually feels a bit sorry for Sherlock's younger self; having such a generic room.

"Problem?" Sherlock inquires as John remains standing in the doorway surveying the room. Jostled from his thoughts by Sherlock's voice he moves forward into the room, saying "No. Just not what I expected." "And what did you expect?" Sherlock inquires, seeming almost amused.

"I don't know. Something different. The room's just so..." he pauses here, trying to decide on the right word to sum it up. "Dull." Sherlock provides, with something akin to smirk. John grins in return "Utterly dull." he quips. "Well I never spent much time in here as child anyway." "No I imagine not. Since you never sleep."

Sherlock lets out an irritated huff. "Why does everyone have a sudden interest in my sleep habits? I could really do without the constant commentary." John smirks at his annoyance "No need to get prickly."

Sherlock doesn't respond and instead unzips his back before dumping its contents on the bed. "What are you doing?" "Unpacking, obviously. And you should be doing the same. Mummy will be expecting us." "What do you mean?" "She has tea at exactly 11:05 every morning instead of eating breakfast earlier. She wanted us to have tea with her and since its 10:50 we only have fifteen minutes."

"But she said whenever we were unpacked and settled in to join her. She didn't say anything about a schedule." "Well of course she didn't say anything. Why would she? I'm aware of her habits so I know what is expected. It doesn't take long to unpack anyway." John doesn't bother replying and begins unpacking as well.

At 11:04 they are entering the garden.

And for the fifteenth time that morning John is quite surprised. You'd think that he would've become desensitized to the unusual and unexpected by now, but apparently he hasn't.

His surprise is multi-fold. The "garden" is in fact a massive white pagoda. It's surrounded by plants in extravagant pots and statues of the entire Greek Parthenon.

The next element that surprises him is the dining arrangement. There is not an outdoor table and chairs as he anticipated. Instead there are five ornately carved lawn chairs with plush cushions surrounding a low marble table.

Which brings us to the next element in his surprise; the occupants to the chairs.

Penny, Mycroft and Brooklyn. Now the people themselves are not surprising, he knew they would be joining them for tea. What was surprising is the fact that they are lying down.

Well Penny and Brooklyn are; Mycroft is sitting upright, drumming his fingers impatiently against the handle of his umbrella. Brooklyn is lying on her back, still glued to her blackberry. Penny is lying on her side, her head propped against one hand while the other stroked a large afghan hound lying beside her chair.

She glances up as they step onto the pagoda. "Perfect timing. Take a seat."

They moved towards the two empty chairs. John sat down on his, remaining upright like Mycroft. He's accustomed to lying down unless he's sleeping and the whole thing seems a bit awkward. Sherlock on the other hand flops down upon the chairs in his typically dramatic fashion, stretched out on his back. John half expects him to steeple his fingers.

"John you ought to stretch out and relax. This is how I always have tea. The Romans believed that if you were lying down when you ate then you were more relaxed which aids in digestion." Penny says, gesturing to the table, laid out with tea cups for everyone, a center pot and small plates with biscuits and fruit. John takes his tea, thankful for this blessed beverage which seems the perfect cure for all awkwardness.

At Penny's words, Sherlock chimes in "You know there is evidence that better digestion aids in weight-loss. Perhaps you should lie down as well Mycroft." "Most of us aren't as accustomed to lying around on the couch as you are Sherlock." "Are you implying I'm lazy?" "Certainly not, brother dear." "Because if you were then I would be forced to comment on the fact that I still maintain a lower weight than you irrelevant of the fact that I have so little activity."

"Boys that is quite enough. Sherlock; your brother's weight is none of your concern. Mycroft, you are well aware of Sherlock's activities and it's hardly fair to accuse him of laziness." Penny cuts in, her tone firm and reproving. Chastened, they fall silent.

"Now can we get on with our tea and conversation without the two of you ate each other's throats? You're siblings, not mortal enemies." John finds himself fighting a smile at her word choice. He vividly recalls his first meeting with Mycroft and being told he was Sherlock's arch-enemy. Trying to lighten the conversation he chimes in

"Enemy and sibling are kind of synonymous, though. At least my sister and I used to think so."

Relieved at the chance to redirect the conversation, Mycroft smiles, removing a small notebook from his pocket. "Ah yes. Harriet isn't it?" "She goes by Harry." Sherlock chimes in. "How long did it take your surveillance to connect her to John? A few days?

I knew he had a sister within moments of meeting him." John groans inwardly; these two really can't seem to stop.

He's tempted to remind Sherlock that he thought Harry was his brother, but decides its better not to get involved. "Enough power play you two. It's not fair to John that you are using your knowledge of his personal life to try and outdo each other." Penny interrupts. John shoots her a grateful smile as the brothers once again fall silent. Sherlock shoots a petulant glare at Mycroft, who returns it with a cool glare of his own.

"It occurs to me that although you two know everything about John; he probably knows very little about you. We're a rather secretive family." She directs the last sentence towards John, almost apologetically. "If you have any questions you're welcome to ask m-." here Sherlock cuts in coolly. "If there is anything John wants to know about me then he can ask _me_. I'm old enough to answer for myself."

"Yeah, but you don't." John counters. "I remember our first night out together. Trying to get information from you was like pulling teeth." "And how would you know what it's like to pull teeth? You're on army doctor not an orthodontist." Sherlock quips back. "You have no idea what kind of things I can do." John returns, with smirk. He didn't mean it to sound so flirtatious, but it came out that way.

Sherlock's eyes widen and a small smile quirks up a corner of his mouth. Even Mycroft turns to look at John with an upraised brow. Fighting a blush at their scrutiny; John quickly redirects the conversation back to Penny's original inquiry.

"Actually I am a bit curious about Sherlock's childhood. Have you got any photo albums or anything we could look over?" Sherlock groans and even Mycroft gives his head a little shake. John isn't sure what he's done wrong.

"I've got a few photographs." "A 'few' being several hundred." Sherlock chimes in. Penny silences him with a look and continues "I'll pull them out once we're finished here for you to look over." "Thanks."

"Mummy I hate to rush things along but I do have other engagements." Mycroft says, glancing at his wristwatch for effect. "Oh, I'm sorry dear. Right, to business then."

She sits upright, reaching for a small suitcase that was set at the end of her chair. She lays it on her lap and clicks it open. She shuffles through the papers, muttering to herself as she selects certain documents to lie on the table, amongst the untouched food. When she finished she snaps it closed and begins.

"Here is the guest list." she says offering two copies, one to Sherlock and the other to Mycroft. John moves from his chair to sit beside Sherlock so he can read alongside him. Not that it really matters because he has no idea who any of these people are, but he likes to feel included. Mycroft hands his off to Brooklyn saying "Catalogue this."

"And this is a sketch up of how the ballroom will look when they've finished decorating." She says, lying out a large sheet of paper on the table. "I've got people in there now working on it. Should be done Saturday afternoon so you can see it in person."

The sketch shows the ballroom divided into three sections by long buffet tables, with an expansive center space clear for dancing. There are small circles in three of the sections representing tables and each section has a color written in the margins of it. Blue, green, violet and the center space is marked silver.

"What do these colors mean?" John inquires, pointing to the words. "Ah, it part of the theme for the ball. I was recently re-reading my collection on Poe's work and came across his story, 'The Masque of Red Death.' I thought it would be a marvelous basis to work off of. Not the death part of course." she adds, seeing the look on John's face.

He has no idea who or what she is talking about, but the title doesn't sound too promising. "I'm not really familiar with, um - Poe, was it?" "No need to be alarmed John." Sherlock cuts in. "I'm sure Mummy is referring to the color scheme mentioned in the story. It's focused around a ball thrown by a prince. Each of the rooms is decorated entirely in a different color. That's what the words mean."

"Quite right Sherlock. Of course I can't go in exact accordance with the story as we are only using one room instead of seven and I can't divide the ballroom into seven sections. So I picked the four colors I thought would work together and that I like the best. And the ball from the story is a masquerade. I wasn't really keen on having a full out Masquerade and I didn't think you boys would be either, so instead we will be using masks as part of the decoration. They will be in the flower arrangements and such. "Oh. Okay then. Sounds good I guess." John agrees, still not quite following.

"What about the music?" Sherlock asks, disinterested in the guest list or any other details of the decoration. "I've got a lovely local group that plays at weddings and such. Only four members and all strings, but I think they will work beautifully. I've given them some of your favorite pieces to learn" she says, handing him a list of the songs that they will be playing. "They will be here tomorrow afternoon around 1:00 to rehearse and familiarize themselves with the acoustics of the room if you want to go over anything with them."

Sherlock scans the list, nodding in approval. Again John is clueless; he doesn't recognize any of the composers or songs. "I'm glad you asked about the music though." Penny starts "As there's something I want to ask yo-" "No." Sherlock cuts her off sharply.

"Sherlock you don't even know what I'm going to sa-" "You want me to perform. Out of the question." "But, dear you play so beautifully." "I didn't bring my violin and I can't play any other." "You mean you won't play any other. You can play any violin."

Sherlock doesn't respond and simply gazes coolly at her. "Besides, I was going to suggest the piano." "The piano?" John interjects, again surprised. "You can play the piano?" he inquires towards Sherlock. "Yes." is his clipped response. "You never told me that." "You never asked." John rolls his eyes "Never occurred to me." Sherlock gives a half-shrug as if to say _"Not my fault"_

"Why won't you play?" Penny asks, exasperated by his stubbornness. "Why should I?" is his response. "Because you play beautifully. It would just add a lovely touch to the entire event. And I'm sure John would love to hear you play." she says, nodding towards him; clearly trying to enlist his help.

"Absolutely" he chimes in. "I love it when you play the violin and I bet you're just as good on the piano." "John can hear me play anytime he wants while we're here. I don't have to perform for an audience to perform for him." "But what if I want you to perform for an audience?" John argues. "And why would you want that?" Sherlock inquires, his tone laced with distaste and confusion.

"To show everyone how amazing you are." when Sherlock doesn't respond he continues "Everyone knows you're smart with the Science of Deduction, but a lot of them - well- I mean, they-" he fumbles, realizing that probably wasn't the best path to go down.

"They think I'm a freak." Sherlock supplies; meeting John's eyes and maintaining his cool, unreadable expression. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Penny at the word. Obviously it is a point of discontent among the entire family. Taking a breath and allowing his own incensed feelings towards the gits who are so prejudice against Sherlock to feed his words he continues.

"Yeah they do. And they are wrong. That's why you should perform, so that they can see another side of you. You are an absolutely gorgeous man Sherlock. Inside and out.

You can be a prat at times and your tact is certainly wanting, but overall you're amazing. I want them to see that."

They haven't broken eye contact and John can read the emotions stirring inside Sherlock. The rest of his features remain impassive, but his oceanic eyes are like an open book. John's words clearly mean a lot to him and John can see they've begun to thaw more of his icy barriers that he has so carefully constructed. It's moment like this when the depth of their connection shows through and is nearly palpable. Silent words are exchanged between them, John reassuring Sherlock against whatever sort of insecurities he had buried beneath his arrogant exterior and Sherlock reassuring John of their bond by allowing him in.

"How touching." comes Mycroft urbane drawl, breaking the moment.

Sherlock shoots him a razor glare, with such venom that Mycroft's eyes widen slightly. He realizes that their conversation was more than a sentimental exchange between lovers and the gravity of his interruption. For the first time John can recall, Mycroft actually lowers his gaze instead of engaging Sherlock in a glaring contest. A form of apology, the only sort his pride will allow.

Sherlock seems to debate with himself for a moment before murmuring "Alright." "You'll perform?" Penny inquires, wanting to be sure. Taking a moment to return to his typically blasé persona after John's declaration and their "moment", he fiddles with the papers on the table, neatly stacking them.

"Yes. I'll need to practice though." "Of course." Penny says, with a smile.

Sherlock stands, asking "It's still in the ballroom I presume?" "What now?" Penny demands incredulously. "Yes. I haven't played in quite some time. I'll need all the practice I can get." "But Sherlo-" "And we've gone over everything we need to for Saturday.

I really don't care to see the menu as I won't be eating and I'm hardly concerned with the wine list. So unless there are any other pressing matters that need my expert attention..." he trails of, letting the silence drip with his sarcasm.

Penny just shakes her head, exasperation evident in her face. "Fine. Yes, it's still there." "Excellent. Come along John." He says, sweeping away from the pagoda. It doesn't have quite the same effect without his coat, but the action is so _Sherlock_ that John can't help but grin. He stands, saying "That's my cue." Penny grins and shakes her head at her son's antics.

"I believe it's time for me to depart as well." Mycroft says, standing. Wordlessly, still glued to her blackberry, Brooklyn does the same. "Alright, dear. I'll see you Saturday." With a smile for his mother, a nod towards John and a twirl of his umbrella he leaves.

"John!" comes Sherlock's cry from the house. "John chuckles, despite his exasperation. "John?" Penny calls, as he's turning to leave. "Yes?" "Thank you." he doesn't need to ask "For what?" He just smiles in return, before another shout of "John!" rings through the garden and he quickly re-joins Sherlock.

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	4. Piano

_**AN: Sorry about the update delay! Life is just really busy right now.**_

_**I know this story is moving a bit slow but I hope I'm not losing you guys – I've been having a bit of writer's block – though watching the Fall seems to have kick started my muse – a coping mechanism I suppose. **_

_**Next Chp will be some Sherlock and Penny back-story. If you guys have any recommendations/requests I'm open to them!**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing**.

John followed Sherlock into the ballroom and came to a halt when the door opened.

Sherlock just continued on towards the elegant baby grand tucked into a corner, leaving John standing, staring whilst trying not to look like an idiot. He had a hell of a time keeping his mouth closed though. He really needed to get used to the ornate and sophisticated environment.

But he's never been in a ballroom before and the sheer size, not to mention elaborate decor is honestly enough to bring anyone to a halt. And the room is not even in its full glory.

There are ladders and empty boxes scattered about the marbled floor. Partially hung curtains on the large half-moon windows and chairs stacked against the walls. Workers are milling about with decorations in hand, calling orders across the room.

Nobody pays any attention to them as they enter, which was probably for the best as John doubted Sherlock was in the mood to be bothered. He just hopes the "audience" doesn't discourage Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock calls from his seat at the piano in exasperation when he sees John still standing at the entrance. John hurries over, watching as Sherlock lifted the cover from over the keys.

He can read a subtle shift in Sherlock's mood. He's seen it before sometimes when Sherlock plays the violin. There is an entirely different side of him that shows through.

It was as though the music stirs his humanity that he tries most desperately to keep himself separate from. Almost as though the music somehow forges a bridge between his calculating, logical mind and his firmly repressed emotions; allowing them to exist harmoniously for the duration of the song.

Sherlock raises one long-fingered hand, hovering it over the keys, then starting at one end he gently strokes them all down to the opposite, the notes scaling high to low and then back again.

"Its tuned." he murmurs to himself, seeming amused and exasperated.

"So?" John inquired, confused as to the significance.

"So I haven't been home in at least five years and no one else plays. It should've been -"

"Out of tune and the fact that it wasn't means your mother knew she would talk you into playing." John finishes the rest of his sentence, with a grin.

"Don't do that." Sherlock grumbles in irritation.

"Do what?" John inquires, wondering if Sherlock is bothered by the fact that he is amused by his mother's antics.

"Finish my sentences." Sherlock's tone that tells John that the problem should have been obvious.

"Why not?" John counters, because it's not obvious to him as to why it's a problem. "Because I'm perfectly capable of finishing them myself." Sherlock snaps back.

"I know that." John retorts, wondering why Sherlock is so miffed over this.

"Then why did you do it?" Sherlock counters, his tone growing sharper.

"I don't know!" John admits in exasperation." I wasn't really thinking about it. It's just something people do."

"No one else has ever finished a sentence of mine before." Sherlock counters.

"Yeah well that's probably because you ramble on so fast and generally make so little sense that there is no way anyone could understand you, let alone predict what you were going to say." was John's exasperated retort. Really Sherlock got worked up over the strangest things.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, affronted at his response.

"I make so little sense that no one can understand me?" he quotes incredulously.

"Generally speaking yes. I suppose it's because your mind works an hundred miles faster than ours. I didn't mean it as a bad thing." he clarifies, wondering how they managed to get into a tift over something so petty.

"Then how is it you came to complete my sentence a few moments ago?" Sherlock challenges.

"Because we're a couple you twat!" he snaps, thoroughly ticked off by Sherlock's antics.

"What does being a couple have to do with any of this?" Sherlock demands, confused, per usual, by anything to do with relationships or emotions.

"It's just what couples do!" he snaps out in explanation, a bit louder than intended.

Glancing back over his shoulder to see if they've gained an audience he notes that all the workers have left, which is certainly a blessing. He allows his gaze to sweep the ballroom, breathing in and trying to calm his irritation.

The gentle strains of a melody draws his gaze back to Sherlock, who has begun to play, though still maintaining an air of sullen displeasure. John lets out a long suffering sigh as Sherlock's playing grows more forceful and discordant. He supposed this is the piano version of scratching in displeasure on the violin.

He doesn't apologize or attempt verbal reconciliation; that's simply not how they work. Words tend to confuse things between them and their attempted apologies always come out in tangles that make no sense and do little to resolve the situation.

Instead he nudges Sherlock gently saying "Alright scoot. I'm not just going to stand here the whole time." Signifying that he isn't going to fight anymore and wants to drop the matter.

After a moments hesitation Sherlock's mouth quirks up just slightly, in a barely perceptible smile and he slides to the other end of the bench, signifying that he's going to drop the matter as well.

John watches, enraptured as Sherlock begins to play. There is something entrancing about watching his pale elegant fingers dancing alternately across the black and white keys.

There is something almost symbolic about it he muses, something reflective of Sherlock. Black and white, dark and light, contrasting and combining to create something unique and wonderful.

He is rather surprised at his train of thought, because usually he is about as poetic as a hedgehog. But perhaps his mind has such a hard time defining and processing Sherlock that it has to resort to metaphors.

Sherlock plays for over an hour and John does nothing to conceal his pleasure at Sherlock's talent and his disappointment when he stops.

"That was amazing." He exclaims in his typically uncensored delight and admiration.

Sherlock inclines his head in a nonchalant acknowledgment.

"You're not done are you?" he prompts, wanting Sherlock to continue.

" I've just played for an hour straight. My fingers are out of practice." He reprimands.

Right. Sorry." John mutters, conceding. "I just can't believe I've never heard you play before. You should do it more often."

"And where would I play? I could hardly fit a piano in the flat." he counters.

John concedes that he has a point, and admits that he will settle for the violin.

_Ping! _

John's phone sounds from his pocket. He fishes it out, wondering who would be texting him.

**I have the albums for you boys in the garden.**

**PH**

John purses his lips as he reads the text. "Your family is ridiculous." he mutters.

"Hmhm?" is Sherlock's uninterested response as he continues to toy with the keys.

"Your mum just sent me a text message to let me know the albums are in the garden. Now I know where you get it from." he comments in a tone of fond annoyance.

"And why did she text me instead of you?" he wonders aloud.

"Well you are the one who asked for them." Sherlock points out.

"True." he concedes standing and expecting Sherlock to do the same. Which he doesn't.

"Coming?" he inquires when Sherlock remains at the piano.

Sherlock glances up in mild surprise "Why would I?" he inquires, evidently confused. "To look at photos with me." John responds, mirroring Sherlock's habit of speaking in a _"isn't is obvious"_ tone.

"Considering I'm the subject of them I don't see why I should." is his nonchalant reply.

"Its because you're the subject of most of them that you should." John counters.

"Are you implying I'm arrogant?" Sherlock quips, feigning an incredulous and wounded tone.

John smiles at the banter "Not in this case. But I need you to give me the back-story on the photos; otherwise there is no point in it."

With an overstated air of someone who is long-suffering Sherlock stands.

"Fine." he grumbles. "I'll indulge your curiosity." He says, with a flourish of his hand.

"Only fair considering how often I indulge yours" John quips back.

Sherlock sweeps past him, trying for an air of irritation, but John can practically feel the smirk at the reality of John's statement.

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	5. History

_**AN: Wow – it's been awhile. Sorry! Some mild angst crept into this chapter I'm afraid, but I did warn you there would be some in Sherlock's back-story. Hopefully you guys can bear with me on this one – it will be slow sporadic updates from now on...**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. John Watson has that honor.**

They arrive in the garden to find Penny exactly where they left her. She gestures to a pile of leather bound photo albums on the table. "Here you are, boys. Those are from the time Sherlock was born up to the time he turned sixteen. Don't have many after that." she says, with a cool smile.

"Why is that?" John asks, collecting the four albums from the table.

"That's when I left home." Sherlock cuts in before Penny has a chance to answer.

"Ran away you mean." She corrects, leveling him with a look.

Sherlock lets out a soft sigh that tells John this argument is one of many they've had on the subject. "I went to Uni, mummy." He counters.

"Without telling anyone where you were going." She argues.

"I saw no reason to alert you to my actions. I was confident Mycroft would report to you as he always did and if you were ever so inclined to see me you could've easily done so. We resided in the same city after all." Sherlock retorts, his voice taking on its default cold, detached tone and John finds himself wondering what sort of story is behind this.

Penny lets out a soft, resigned sigh and gives him a wistful look. "I suppose it's all past now anyway. Nothing can be done. Still, lost time can not be regained and it does sadden me..." she trails off, then shakes her head firmly as if to clear her melancholy.

"Never mind that. Run off and enjoy yourselves." She says, her voice suddenly bright, giving them a dismissive wave as though they're bothersome school children.

Sherlock gives her a curt nod and turns sharply on his heel in an uncharacteristically stiff and controlled manner. John hurries after, question filling his mind about what he just witnessed. "Uh – Sherlock?" he starts uncertainly.

"I told you my mother can be a bit much. Mood swings are not uncommon with her. She seems to have a particular fondness for bouts of melancholy." Sherlock says with an affable tone, trying to display that the conversation had no effect on him.

John is not convinced though, clearly reading something in Sherlock's carefully cultivated apathetic attitude that rolls off of him as he quickly ascends the elegant stair-case, taking the steps two at a time. John doesn't try again as they stride quickly down the hall, not stopping until they're back in his room.

"What was that about?" John asks as Sherlock closes the door.

"You'll have to be more specific, John." Sherlock responds, turning to face him with a carefully contrived smirk, trying for an air of his typically affable countenance.

It falls short however as the expression doesn't reach his eyes, which are oddly cold and dull. Even when Sherlock's face remains impassive and unreadable his eyes always say something to John. But not now, his defenses are up to maximum.

John lets out a soft sigh and answers "Your mother. That bit about you running away and-"

Sherlock cuts him off saying "I went to Uni. I enrolled early and passed the necessary exams. Got myself a scholarship so I didn't have to seek financial support. I didn't run away."

"Right. Fine. Okay. But there is something more to the story. Something that affected the relationship between you and your mum. I could tell." John insists, leveling Sherlock with an uncompromising look.

Sherlock scoffs "Oh aren't you the perceptive one?" he bites out, collapsing upon his bed.

John groans quietly and runs a hand over his face. "Sherlock you might not understand this but couples talk about these sort of things. Past history-"

"That's rather redundant, don't you think?" Sherlock cuts in acerbically.

John takes not notice and continues talking over him. "It's important to understand where the other person is coming from emotiona-."

'Why?" Sherlock interrupts

"What?" John inquires, not catching his question

"Why do I have to reveal my life history to you simply because we are romantically involved?" Sherlock demands, sitting upright and fixing John with a icy glare.

"Because it affects our relationship!" John snaps, reacting to his harsh tone.

"That is the most ridiculous argument I've ever had the displeasure of hearing." Sherlock retorts incredulously.

"My relationship with my mother has no bearing what so ever on our relationship.

They work on two entirely different dynamics and are therefore irrelevant to each other." He argues.

John grumbles under his breath for a moment before responding "Fine. I'm not going to try and explain this to you. I don't know how to make you understand." John concedes, throwing his hands up in exasperation and surrender.

"Instead I'm going to ask you to trust me when I say it's important and just tell me." He continues. "Please." He tags on, with a soft smile.

Sherlock surveys him for a moment, considering, before conceding with a shrug.

"My mother and I had an excellent relationship when I was young. I spent a majority of my time with her in the library studying, whilst Mycroft was being conditioned by my father for bureaucracy." He explains and John gestures for him to continue

"However shortly after Mycroft turned sixteen Mummy was offered a job in London. We hardly ever saw her after that. She was always off on assignment and Mycroft and I were in school. She sent letters frequently and was always home when we were on holiday. We where often left to our own devices though and ultimately ended up as strangers to each other." He finishes

"And you were hurt and angry because she left you on your own?" John inquires.

Sherlock tosses him a derisory look. "I'm not a wounded child, John. I just find it rather audacious of her to claim that I ran off and destroyed some ideal of a perfect relationship when she left first." He argues

John considers this for a moment "But you were hurt by it." He insists.

"At the time." Sherlock admits after a moment.

"Of course then Mycroft took it upon himself to step into her shoes. Meddlesome tosser. Always wanting to know what I was doing, why I was failing in history, who my friends were, not that I really had any. Even when he finally went off to Uni it didn't stop. He seemed to think I was dangerous, unstable and fragile because of my unusual temperament. Mummy often tried to get him to leave off, but she was to busy with her own life to really be bothered." Sherlock explains with an affable shrug.

John gives him a sympathetic smile. "Thanks for telling me."

Sherlock scoffs and says "Don't mistake what I've said for sentiment. I harbor no ill will against her over the matter. Our family has always been pragmatic and selfish. What troubles me is when she insists that we act otherwise. We are not a happy family John. She is not a dotting mother with two devoted sons, no matter how much she might wish to be."

John isn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he instead changes the subject and hands Sherlock one of the albums saying "Shall we begin?"

"If we must." He concedes with a small grin, grateful for the redirection.

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	6. Childhood

_**AN: Wow – I am so, so, very sorry about the ridiculous lapse in updates. I'll be amazed if there are any readers out there who are still interested in this. God I need to be more consistent in my writing. In my defense I recently started watching SPN and Sam, Cas and Dean have taken over my brain...**_

**I own nothing**

John never bothered imagining Sherlock as a child. He'd tried once, when something was said by Mycroft about him wanting to be a pirate, but somehow he couldn't correlate the six foot of sass he knew to a curly headed child whirling a plastic sword about.

He'd simply given up on it after a few moments and decided that Sherlock is just one of those people who seem to have sprung from the ground, full-grown. Ridiculous of course, he's a doctor and he knows this, but it doesn't help his mind create a picture of a seven year old Sherlock.

Now he realizes though, looking at the photographs that he wouldn't have gotten it right anyway, even if he had managed some successful visualization. If he'd imagined Sherlock as a child it simply would've been a miniature version of the one he knew. A haughty and serious child with piercing eyes and impeccable clothes. Not so.

The first photo in the album is one of Sherlock when he appears to be about three years old. He's dressed in a bright blue outfit with a ridiculous looking puppy on the front. His head is covered with erratic dark curls and he's laughing as he sits on the floor of what appears to be the library, surrounded by a book with its pages ripped out. He has a bunch of pages crushed in a tiny fist and appears to be waving them about in pride.

"Taken by my mother when I was three and a half." Sherlock narrates, as John bursts into a chuckle.

"Did you disagree with the author or something?" John asks with a fond smile.

Sherlock snorts and says "I don't recall why I destroyed the book. I don't even comprehend why mummy thought it necessary to photograph me. It was on her books I believe; I'm surprised she didn't scold me instead."

John just shakes his head and says "Maybe she didn't want to discourage your curiosity?"

Sherlock flips the page and says "It's irrelevant." In a tone that suggests it's the end of the conversation. John realizes he's still a tad sensitive on the issue of mummy, probably feeling a chip in his armor after telling John about her. So John lets it pass.

They flip through Sherlock's early years at a fairly quick pace. Sherlock narrates with what he deems relevant information. His age at the time, who took the photo and such. Often John has to press for the actual story behind the picture. It was a bit like pulling teeth, but worth every moment.

When they reached a picture of Sherlock's seventh Halloween John nearly fell on his arse, he was laughing so hard. "I - Oh god -you - you were a_ policeman_?!" he manages through his hysterics.

And yes, he was. The picture shows Sherlock dressed in black with a plastic hat, proudly displaying a fake badge and attempting to look intimidating. Or at least that what's John assumed, either that or he'd eaten something sour. Or maybe Mycroft was behind the camera.

Sherlock purses his lips slightly in distaste and flips the page without a word. "No, no. Hang on." John says, trying to wrestle the album from his hand "We're taking that home. I wanna show it to Lestrade."

Sherlock wrenches it from his grip and warns with vitriol "Do so and it will be your murder that they investigate next"

John laughs at the death glare he receives, but relents, though he's unable to resist adding "So you actually respected the Met once? Actually _admired _them? The things you learn about a bloke..."

Sherlock snorts and retorts "I was young and naive." With a petulant edge to his voice.

John grins and inquires "Where you a pirate one year as well?" grabbing for the album again to search for evidence of it.

Sherlock yanks it forcibly back and says "Yes. When I was nine. And no, there aren't any pictures because mummy's camera was broken. Thank god for technological failures."

John fixes him with a dubious expression and says "I don't believe you. I'd bet anything there's a picture of it somewhere in there."

"No there isn't. If I was going to lie to you about it I simply would've denied ever dressing as a pirate. I don't deceive people unless it's necessary." Sherlock argues, flipping decisively to the next page.

John snorts at that and has a retort on the tip of his tongue about Sherlock being full of it when he sees the next picture, which renders him silent.

It's a photo of a nine year old Sherlock asleep on a carpeted floor, a small pile of books beside him and a large tabby cat curled up on his chest. What stills John's tongue though is the look of utter contentment on Sherlock's face and the way he has one arm draped possessively over the feline on his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes linger briefly on the picture and John swears a small smile quirks the edge of his mouth for a brief moment, as if recalling a fond memory. It's not an expression John sees often on Sherlock.

When he regains the power of speech he murmurs "I never knew you had a cat." John expects sarcastic retort, something along the lines of "_You never asked"_ or _" Why would such information be relevant to you?"_

However it must be a bit of his past he doesn't mind sharing because instead Sherlock says "His name was Francis. I named him after Francis Camp, a pathologist who worked on the case of the serial killer, John Christie."

John snorts and mutters "Pleasant" but Sherlock pays no attention to it. His head is tilted and he's studying the picture as if trying to connect more data to it.

"I found him on day when I was out in the back area of the garden. He was filthy, covered in mud and had numerous scrapes, I assume he'd been in a fight shortly before. I was studying basic first aid at the time so I took him in as my first patient." Sherlock explains.

John suspects that the first aid was only part of the reason Sherlock took pity on the cat. He finds it more likely that young Sherlock saw the cat as a chance for a friend, as many children do when it comes to pets. But he says nothing and letting his silence prompt Sherlock to share more.

"Mummy seemed thrilled when I brought him in. We'd never had pets before but I discovered she's very fond of cats. She told me that he was my responsibility and gave me the first aid kit. I took him up to my room and cleaned him up as best I could. Within a few weeks he was healed, had gained weight and was following me around like a dog."

John grins and says "You made yourself a friend, then?" He's imaging the large tabby trailing Sherlock through the house, or curling up next to him in the library, sharing ice-cream, the sort of things most kids do with their pets.

"Friend?" Sherlock questions rhetorically "Not quite. He could be rather troublesome at times. Had the vexing habit of trying to lay on my paper when I was writing and he was constantly knocking my beakers off the table and ruined at least a dozen slides a month by trying to turn them into toys." Sherlock explains with exasperation, but there's a barely contained hint of fondness to his tone as he speaks.

"Yeah well I had a dog once that ripped apart my entire comic book collection so consider yourself lucky" John retorts with a chuckle.

Sherlock spears John with a side glance that speaks of his distaste at the idea of a comic book collection, but he says nothing on the matter. Instead he says "Lucky for Francis he was a proficient hunter. He often brought me specimens to dissect. Frog, mice and the occasion pigeon. Rather useful."

John isn't sure if he should cringe at Sherlock's childhood activities or laugh at the unusual relationship he had with the tabby. Instead he rolls his eyes at Sherlock's pretense of dispassion towards the cat and says "You loved that cat, didn't you? Specimens or not you'd never have gotten rid of him"

Sherlock shrugs neutrally, but doesn't protest, which John takes as agreement. "So what happened to him" John asks after a moment of silence.

Sherlock flipped the page before answering coolly "Run over by a car two years after that picture was taken. He was killed instantly."

John swears under his breath and mutters "Oh, Christ..." He's seen enough road kill to know the sort of affect it must've had on child, even Sherlock.

But Sherlock refuses to let him pursue that matter, already moving on into his early teen years, which are filled with pictures of him holding various academic wards while wearing various bored expressions.

The album ends abruptly with a picture of Sherlock and Mycroft in the garden, dressed in formal wear and smiling coldly at the camera. It's obvious they're displeased with the physical closeness of the other and John wonders how mummy managed to talk them into that particular picture.

"Mycroft's birthday" Sherlock mutters dismissively, before snapping the album shut. "And then, as you know, I ran off to Uni."

John was about to say something, though he's not sure _what_ exactly, just something to break the odd tension that has slowly built as he's explored Sherlock's past, but he doesn't get a chance.

Sherlock's phone rings sharply and Sherlock practically leaps from the bed, snatching it from his pocket, saying "Lestrade" with something akin to relief in his voice.

"Barely gone two days and you already require my assistance?" Sherlock says in lieu of a greeting.

John doesn't need to hear the response from the other end of the line to know that it's something equally acerbic. Knowing Sherlock will be distracted for a bit he decides to catch up on a bit of sleep and stretches out on the bed with a soft sigh.

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